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Fifty-One Tales
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This work is in the public domain in the United States of America, and possibly other nations. Within the United States, you may freely copy and distribute this work, as no entity (individual or corporate) has a copyright on the body of the work.
As a reproduction of a historical artifact, this work may contain missing or blurred pages, poor pictures, errant marks, etc. Scholars believe, and we concur, that this work is important enough to be preserved, reproduced, and made generally available to the public. We appreciate your support of the preservation process, and thank you for being an important part of keeping this knowledge alive and relevant.
90 pages, ebook
First published January 1, 1915
About the author
Lord Dunsany
713 books871 followersEdward John Moreton Drax Plunkett, eighteenth baron of Dunsany, was an Anglo-Irish writer and dramatist, notable for his work in fantasy published under the name Lord Dunsany. More than eighty books of his work were published, and his oeuvre includes hundreds of short stories, as well as successful plays, novels and essays. Born to one of the oldest titles in the Irish peerage, he lived much of his life at perhaps Ireland's longest-inhabited home, Dunsany Castle near Tara, received an honourary doctorate from Trinity College, and died in Dublin.
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February 29, 2016
Final review, first posted at www.FantasyLiterature.com:
This is a collection of ― hardly even short stories ― more like brief vignettes, for the most part just a few paragraphs in length, by Lord Dunsany, an Irish baron who wrote fantasy in the first half of the 20th century. He is one of the earlier authors to write fantastical literature and is considered an influence on J.R.R. Tolkien and H.P. Lovecraft, among other respected twentieth century fantasy authors.
These fantastical tales, first published in 1915, are mostly written with a foreboding, portentous voice, and tend to be gloomy in tone. Dunsany liked to personify abstract things like Death and Winter, talk about the foolishness and transience of modern civilization, and start most of his sentences with the word “And”.
I didn’t think most of this collection was particularly memorable, but there are several gems among the group, including “The Hen” and “The Sphinx in Thebes (Massachusetts)” (which I've copied below since they're conveniently out of copyright). In another striking story, “The Raft-Builders,” Lord Dunsany compares authors to “sailors hastily making rafts upon doomed ships.”
This collection is available for free on Gutenberg. A couple of favorites:
THE HEN
All along the farmyard gables the swallows sat a-row, twittering uneasily to one another, telling of many things, but thinking only of Summer and the South, for Autumn was afoot and the North wind waiting.
And suddenly one day they were all quite gone. And everyone spoke of the swallows and the South.
"I think I shall go South myself next year," said a hen.
And the year wore on and the swallows came again, and the year wore on and they sat again on the gables, and all the poultry discussed the departure of the hen.
And very early one morning, the wind being from the North, the swallows all soared suddenly and felt the wind in their wings; and a strength came upon them and a strange old knowledge and a more than human faith, and flying high they left the smoke of our cities and small remembered eaves, and saw at last the huge and homeless sea, and steering by grey sea-currents went southward with the wind. And going South they went by glittering fog-banks and saw old islands lifting their heads above them; they saw the slow quests of the wandering ships, and divers seeking pearls, and lands at war, till there came in view the mountains that they sought and the sight of the peaks they knew; and they descended into an austral valley, and saw Summer sometimes sleeping and sometimes singing song.
"I think the wind is about right," said the hen; and she spread her wings and ran out of the poultry-yard. And she ran fluttering out on to the road and some way down it until she came to a garden.
At evening she came back panting.
And in the poultry-yard she told the poultry how she had gone South as far as the high road, and saw the great world's traffic going by, and came to lands where the potato grew, and saw the stubble upon which men live, and at the end of the road had found a garden, and there were roses in it—beautiful roses!—and the gardener himself was there with his braces on.
"How extremely interesting," the poultry said, "and what a really beautiful description!"
And the Winter wore away, and the bitter months went by, and the Spring of the year appeared, and the swallows came again.
"We have been to the South," they said, "and the valleys beyond the sea."
But the poultry would not agree that there was a sea in the South: "You should hear our hen," they said.
*****
THE SPHINX IN THEBES (MASSACHUSETTS)
There was a woman in a steel-built city who had all that money could buy, she had gold and dividends and trains and houses, and she had pets to play with, but she had no sphinx.
So she besought them to bring her a live sphinx; and therefore they went to the menageries, and then to the forests and the desert places, and yet could find no sphinx.
And she would have been content with a little lion but that one was already owned by a woman she knew; so they had to search the world again for a sphinx.
And still there was none.
But they were not men that it is easy to baffle, and at last they found a sphinx in a desert at evening watching a ruined temple whose gods she had eaten hundreds of years ago when her hunger was on her. And they cast chains on her, who was still with an ominous stillness, and took her westwards with them and brought her home.
And so the sphinx came to the steel-built city.
And the woman was very glad that she owned a sphinx: but the sphinx stared long into her eyes one day, and softly asked a riddle of the woman.
And the woman could not answer, and she died.
And the sphinx is silent again and none knows what she will do.
*****
Thanks to Margaret for the heads up on this book and Jo Walton's quote, and on Lord Dunsany generally!
This is a collection of ― hardly even short stories ― more like brief vignettes, for the most part just a few paragraphs in length, by Lord Dunsany, an Irish baron who wrote fantasy in the first half of the 20th century. He is one of the earlier authors to write fantastical literature and is considered an influence on J.R.R. Tolkien and H.P. Lovecraft, among other respected twentieth century fantasy authors.
These fantastical tales, first published in 1915, are mostly written with a foreboding, portentous voice, and tend to be gloomy in tone. Dunsany liked to personify abstract things like Death and Winter, talk about the foolishness and transience of modern civilization, and start most of his sentences with the word “And”.
I didn’t think most of this collection was particularly memorable, but there are several gems among the group, including “The Hen” and “The Sphinx in Thebes (Massachusetts)” (which I've copied below since they're conveniently out of copyright). In another striking story, “The Raft-Builders,” Lord Dunsany compares authors to “sailors hastily making rafts upon doomed ships.”
When we break up under the heavy years and go down into eternity with all that is ours our thoughts like small lost rafts float on awhile upon Oblivion’s sea. They will not carry much over those tides, our names and a phrase or two and little else…Jo Walton aptly stated about Lord Dunsany, “What he could do, what he did better than anyone, was to take poetic images and airy tissues of imagination and weight them down at the corners with perfect details to craft a net to catch dreams in.” These tales may be best appreciated in small doses, and aren’t always remarkable, but as a part of the early history of the fantasy genre, they’re worth checking out.
Our ships were all unseaworthy from the first.
There goes the raft that Homer made for Helen.
This collection is available for free on Gutenberg. A couple of favorites:
THE HEN
All along the farmyard gables the swallows sat a-row, twittering uneasily to one another, telling of many things, but thinking only of Summer and the South, for Autumn was afoot and the North wind waiting.
And suddenly one day they were all quite gone. And everyone spoke of the swallows and the South.
"I think I shall go South myself next year," said a hen.
And the year wore on and the swallows came again, and the year wore on and they sat again on the gables, and all the poultry discussed the departure of the hen.
And very early one morning, the wind being from the North, the swallows all soared suddenly and felt the wind in their wings; and a strength came upon them and a strange old knowledge and a more than human faith, and flying high they left the smoke of our cities and small remembered eaves, and saw at last the huge and homeless sea, and steering by grey sea-currents went southward with the wind. And going South they went by glittering fog-banks and saw old islands lifting their heads above them; they saw the slow quests of the wandering ships, and divers seeking pearls, and lands at war, till there came in view the mountains that they sought and the sight of the peaks they knew; and they descended into an austral valley, and saw Summer sometimes sleeping and sometimes singing song.
"I think the wind is about right," said the hen; and she spread her wings and ran out of the poultry-yard. And she ran fluttering out on to the road and some way down it until she came to a garden.
At evening she came back panting.
And in the poultry-yard she told the poultry how she had gone South as far as the high road, and saw the great world's traffic going by, and came to lands where the potato grew, and saw the stubble upon which men live, and at the end of the road had found a garden, and there were roses in it—beautiful roses!—and the gardener himself was there with his braces on.
"How extremely interesting," the poultry said, "and what a really beautiful description!"
And the Winter wore away, and the bitter months went by, and the Spring of the year appeared, and the swallows came again.
"We have been to the South," they said, "and the valleys beyond the sea."
But the poultry would not agree that there was a sea in the South: "You should hear our hen," they said.
*****
THE SPHINX IN THEBES (MASSACHUSETTS)
There was a woman in a steel-built city who had all that money could buy, she had gold and dividends and trains and houses, and she had pets to play with, but she had no sphinx.
So she besought them to bring her a live sphinx; and therefore they went to the menageries, and then to the forests and the desert places, and yet could find no sphinx.
And she would have been content with a little lion but that one was already owned by a woman she knew; so they had to search the world again for a sphinx.
And still there was none.
But they were not men that it is easy to baffle, and at last they found a sphinx in a desert at evening watching a ruined temple whose gods she had eaten hundreds of years ago when her hunger was on her. And they cast chains on her, who was still with an ominous stillness, and took her westwards with them and brought her home.
And so the sphinx came to the steel-built city.
And the woman was very glad that she owned a sphinx: but the sphinx stared long into her eyes one day, and softly asked a riddle of the woman.
And the woman could not answer, and she died.
And the sphinx is silent again and none knows what she will do.
*****
Thanks to Margaret for the heads up on this book and Jo Walton's quote, and on Lord Dunsany generally!
March 24, 2019
And what exactly is this "Food of Death"?
Let's be specific here because enquiring minds want to know:
- White bread
- Tinned meat with a pinch of salt
- Cheap Indian tea
- Champagne
- Food "recommended for invalids"
- Milk & borax!
Thus fed, Death arose ravening, strong, and strode again through the cities.
Er... yay? Maybe 'tis not for the best to feed Death. Also, besides the champagne, I can't say I'm a big fan of the Death Diet. Sounds like a recipe for staying hungry.
So these fifty-one tales are prose poems by one of England's great classic writers, the fabulous Edward John Moreton Drax Plunkett, 18th Baron of Dunsany. He died in 1957 and more than 90 of his books were published in his lifetime. He held the second-oldest title in Irish peerage, lived in Ireland's longest-inhabited castle - Dunsany Castle, of course - and was married to the same lovely lady for the entirety of his life, Beatrice Child Villiers (and thank you very much for all of that, Wikipedia). Here are photos of the charming couple:
I love that non-expression on her face!
Back to the work under inspection. Unfortunately I was usually bored. Perhaps it is the very nature of prose poems that bores me? I dunno. I have loved Lord Dunsany in the past: a big fan in college and, much later, I was fascinated by The King of Elfland's Daughter. He is a gorgeous stylist, his sardonic detachment spices up his dreamy nature, and he spins yarns full of mythic fantasy and ambiguous horror... all of which should make him automatically up my alley. But these fifty-one tales didn't surprise me and often caused eye-rolling. They are mainly little parables about Death walking about, grumpy, and the North Wind winding down, even grumpier, and Pan dying then waking up, probably horny, and various poets mooning over various things, and other similar sorts of fables. The whole collection felt so twee and so obvious. Yes, Man will fall. Yes, Nature is beautiful. Yes, industrialized civilizations are awfully dirty and societies will inevitably turn to dust, as shall we all. Yes, yes, and yes. Got it. Despite the loveliness of his writing style, the obviousness killed me. Fortunately it did not kill my interest in the good Lord, who I will be reading again. One strike does not equal an out.
There were a couple pieces that I rather enjoyed. "Furrow Maker" has two birds discussing the fortunes of that notorious furrow-maker, Man (and his companion, that "nasty fellow" named Dog). And "True History of the Hare and the Tortoise" exhibits a fun mean streak from the author: after being quite impressed that the Tortoise beat the Hare in a footrace, his fellow woodland creatures decide that the speedy Tortoise is best-suited to warn a forest's residents that a terrible fire is approaching. Oops. Not a great call, woodland creatures.
Let's be specific here because enquiring minds want to know:
- White bread
- Tinned meat with a pinch of salt
- Cheap Indian tea
- Champagne
- Food "recommended for invalids"
- Milk & borax!
Thus fed, Death arose ravening, strong, and strode again through the cities.
Er... yay? Maybe 'tis not for the best to feed Death. Also, besides the champagne, I can't say I'm a big fan of the Death Diet. Sounds like a recipe for staying hungry.
So these fifty-one tales are prose poems by one of England's great classic writers, the fabulous Edward John Moreton Drax Plunkett, 18th Baron of Dunsany. He died in 1957 and more than 90 of his books were published in his lifetime. He held the second-oldest title in Irish peerage, lived in Ireland's longest-inhabited castle - Dunsany Castle, of course - and was married to the same lovely lady for the entirety of his life, Beatrice Child Villiers (and thank you very much for all of that, Wikipedia). Here are photos of the charming couple:
I love that non-expression on her face!
Back to the work under inspection. Unfortunately I was usually bored. Perhaps it is the very nature of prose poems that bores me? I dunno. I have loved Lord Dunsany in the past: a big fan in college and, much later, I was fascinated by The King of Elfland's Daughter. He is a gorgeous stylist, his sardonic detachment spices up his dreamy nature, and he spins yarns full of mythic fantasy and ambiguous horror... all of which should make him automatically up my alley. But these fifty-one tales didn't surprise me and often caused eye-rolling. They are mainly little parables about Death walking about, grumpy, and the North Wind winding down, even grumpier, and Pan dying then waking up, probably horny, and various poets mooning over various things, and other similar sorts of fables. The whole collection felt so twee and so obvious. Yes, Man will fall. Yes, Nature is beautiful. Yes, industrialized civilizations are awfully dirty and societies will inevitably turn to dust, as shall we all. Yes, yes, and yes. Got it. Despite the loveliness of his writing style, the obviousness killed me. Fortunately it did not kill my interest in the good Lord, who I will be reading again. One strike does not equal an out.
There were a couple pieces that I rather enjoyed. "Furrow Maker" has two birds discussing the fortunes of that notorious furrow-maker, Man (and his companion, that "nasty fellow" named Dog). And "True History of the Hare and the Tortoise" exhibits a fun mean streak from the author: after being quite impressed that the Tortoise beat the Hare in a footrace, his fellow woodland creatures decide that the speedy Tortoise is best-suited to warn a forest's residents that a terrible fire is approaching. Oops. Not a great call, woodland creatures.
December 13, 2017
I love Dunsany's tales. His stories are like those strange dreams which straddle the borderline between dream and nightmare. He has a brooding voice and can make even the most commonplace event seem sinister.
That said, this book was a sore disappointment. Most of these tales cannot be called by that name - they are just vignettes which may be expanded into tales with a little effort. A nice snack for the intellect, but nothing to satiate your literary hunger.
That said, this book was a sore disappointment. Most of these tales cannot be called by that name - they are just vignettes which may be expanded into tales with a little effort. A nice snack for the intellect, but nothing to satiate your literary hunger.
October 27, 2019
You can absolutely tell what an influence Lord Dunsany was on writers of the early era that followed him (Lovecraft, Rice Burroughs, Howard, Tolkien, et. al.). I don’t know if he was progressive for his time or not, because he was likely more distributed than his contemporaries in the budding genre, but his way of telling these bits of short stories—or flash fiction as we call them now—is extraordinary. His writing can be both lavish and economical at the same time, and his commentaries of the era are satirical, lyrical, and fantastic, while framed in a variety of tales from dreamy to gothic to modern. Cool stuff.
January 5, 2022
51 very short stories, often bleak, and often bleakly humorous. Lord Dunsany is purple and poetic in his prose, but if you like this sort of thing, this is the sort of thing you like.
There's one particular comic story present in this collection -- "The True Story of the Tortoise and Hare" -- that is in the running for the best short I have ever read. Certainly it has the best ending. I've placed the tale in the spoiler tags, below.
Available on Gutenberg.
There's one particular comic story present in this collection -- "The True Story of the Tortoise and Hare" -- that is in the running for the best short I have ever read. Certainly it has the best ending. I've placed the tale in the spoiler tags, below.
Available on Gutenberg.
July 27, 2022
Another collection of prose shorts reminiscent of Dunsany's other collections like The God's Of Pegana or The Book of Wonder. As I alluded to in my review of The God's Of Pegana this collection of shorts should be taken for what they are. Go in without expectations of detailed plotting or character development and you will enjoy whats on offer here.
Some of the shorts will take you by surprise, some were very moving; Dunsany is a thoroughly modern writer with an archaic prose style. The stories evoke the 20th century, whilst seemingly written a long time ago(Time is relative), it says a lot regarding the origins of modernity. Modernity is an antiquated concept with roots firmly planted in a bygone era; we have much more in common with the early 20th century than many of us realise. In the themes and imagery he experiments with, Dunsany's sensibilities are grounded in what is instantly familiar to our contemporary tastes.
In many ways Dunsany's era was more experimental, off beat and surprising compared to the SFF medieval fantasy monoculture that is ubiquitous today. These shorts juxtapose enlightenment era ideas and values, with a reverence for the old-fashioned. The shorts are at once old but also very new.
Lord Dunsany is a true poet.
Whilst I enjoyed this collection, the shorts don't all carry the same weight or impact. When they are good they truly soar, nothing in this collection was bad but some stories are better than others. I give this collection a firm 3 stars!
Some of the shorts will take you by surprise, some were very moving; Dunsany is a thoroughly modern writer with an archaic prose style. The stories evoke the 20th century, whilst seemingly written a long time ago(Time is relative), it says a lot regarding the origins of modernity. Modernity is an antiquated concept with roots firmly planted in a bygone era; we have much more in common with the early 20th century than many of us realise. In the themes and imagery he experiments with, Dunsany's sensibilities are grounded in what is instantly familiar to our contemporary tastes.
In many ways Dunsany's era was more experimental, off beat and surprising compared to the SFF medieval fantasy monoculture that is ubiquitous today. These shorts juxtapose enlightenment era ideas and values, with a reverence for the old-fashioned. The shorts are at once old but also very new.
Lord Dunsany is a true poet.
Whilst I enjoyed this collection, the shorts don't all carry the same weight or impact. When they are good they truly soar, nothing in this collection was bad but some stories are better than others. I give this collection a firm 3 stars!
May 17, 2022
Possibly "Tales" may be too strong a word -- this is a collection of 51, I guess I'd call them prose poems or vignettes, generally not more than a page or two in length, some just a couple of paragraphs, all in Dunsany's elegant prose, but a good few clearly commenting on what would have been current events at the time they were written (sometime right around the Great War) and often taking a fairly disapproving view (not without cause, it should be said) of modernity.
April 13, 2018
Very short tales, but with interesting bits of lore, twists, & humor. They're the basis of a lot of current mythology, so were interesting. Very well narrated.
January 23, 2011
Aha. So this is why Dunsany always gets listed with the Weird Fiction authors!
I wasn't entirely enamored with his longer fiction -- while they were good, I just didn't see where/what influenced and continues to influence so many writers I adore. I could see little bits and pieces, but it didn't fully make sense - especially for Lovecraft.
But here! Here's Lovecraft's trick of crafting entire stories that may not have a plot but set excellent moods. Here's "Charon", the precursor to Neil Gaiman's "Nicholas Was...". I finally get it now.
This is fifty one extremely short stories - none longer than three or four pages, one as short as two sentences. There's a few that just fade into the background, most are excellent, and a few are absolutely fantastic.
There is a pastoral theme in quite a few of the stories with numerous references to cities vanishing under the weight of time and people returning to the country. It was published in 1915, just shy of a year after WWI broke out. So it must have been written either in the extremely tense period right before the war, or in the first few months of fighting. So a pastoral ideal isn't completely unexpected.
This is a wonderful collection - his strength is definitely in the shorter form stories rather than longer novels!
I wasn't entirely enamored with his longer fiction -- while they were good, I just didn't see where/what influenced and continues to influence so many writers I adore. I could see little bits and pieces, but it didn't fully make sense - especially for Lovecraft.
But here! Here's Lovecraft's trick of crafting entire stories that may not have a plot but set excellent moods. Here's "Charon", the precursor to Neil Gaiman's "Nicholas Was...". I finally get it now.
This is fifty one extremely short stories - none longer than three or four pages, one as short as two sentences. There's a few that just fade into the background, most are excellent, and a few are absolutely fantastic.
There is a pastoral theme in quite a few of the stories with numerous references to cities vanishing under the weight of time and people returning to the country. It was published in 1915, just shy of a year after WWI broke out. So it must have been written either in the extremely tense period right before the war, or in the first few months of fighting. So a pastoral ideal isn't completely unexpected.
This is a wonderful collection - his strength is definitely in the shorter form stories rather than longer novels!
Read
April 5, 2019I was only planning to dip into these on my 'phone*, but they're so bite-sized and for the most part so beautiful that I ended up rereading the whole thing. Vignettes and fables, some of which teeter into sententiousness – something I noticed reading them in my teens, but definitely picked up on more often this time around. Still, one of the great themes here, and one which does generally come off, is how much Time takes from us, a rage at all the flowers and the little songs he's swept away along with the gods and empires. The real villains, though, are those who abet him in this, the puritans and Gradgrindians who reduce the world's stock of joy for the most misguided of reasons. And through it all dance Pan, the poets, the animals and the dreamers...so yes, at times it falls flat, but nobody else has ever written anything quite like it, and Dunsany is still owed a paean or two for the grand and mostly successful attempt.
*Which I suspect would freak Dunsany's nut out, given he wrote all his books with a quill pen.
*Which I suspect would freak Dunsany's nut out, given he wrote all his books with a quill pen.
December 5, 2022
Erano un po' di anni che Lord Edward Dunsany infestava come uno spettro le mie letture, lo spettro del proverbiale classico che "tutti i tuoi autori preferiti hanno letto, ergo se non lo leggi anche tu sei un ignorante"; un bel giorno lo approcciai direttamente con il suo "La spada di Welleran" antologizzato in Fantasy: I migliori romanzi e racconti della narrativa fantasy, indi diedi un occhio ai primi racconti dell'omnibus Time and the Gods: An Omnibus, ma ci trovai un inglese troppo aulico per le mie forze, e fuggii. Anni dopo, però, scoprii che il buon barone ha composto anche la qui presente raccolta di micro-storie (o "poemi in prosa", direbbe la gente fine), quindi gli ho dato una seconda chance... e meno male che gliel'ho data, perché è stata una piccola folgorazione! Leggendo pian pianino questi
Fifty-One Tales
(anche intitolati
The Food of Death
, per la cronaca), in ragione di una manciata di racconti ogni giorno, ho avuto conferma di ciò che avevo subodorato leggendo "Unico e solo" di Arianna Michelin in Alkalina #3: a me piace quella forma narrativa che sta all'intersezione fra l'epigramma comico di Marziale, la parabola biblica e l'aneddoto sapienziale su profeti e filosofi, e lord Dunsany mi ha dimostrato che con quella forma si possono comporre cose validissime e affascinanti, piccoli miti e leggende d'autore per l'evo contemporaneo: storie di dèi ed elementi che bisticciano e piagnucolano, di angeli diavoli e della Morte che girano per il mondo a indispettire i mortali, di artisti che visitano paesaggi danteschi nel paese dei sogni, di fragilità della natura umana davanti alle forze cosmiche, anticipando il professor Tolkien e il mio acerrimo nemico Lovecraft – concetti visti e rivisti, direte voi? Sicuro, ma visti e rivisti perché il buon lord ha aperto questa strada già nel 1915, e comunque la sua prosa sardonica e un po' veterotestamentaria resta piuttosto unica.
Al netto di questa epifania stilistica, non do più di 3/5 proprio perché, com'era prevedibile, in una raccolta di ben cinquantun racconti alcuni sono più grossolani di altri, mentre alcuni temi e situazioni sono riproposti con scarse variazioni di testo in testo, così che alcune composizioni sono abbastanza dimenticabili e insoddisfacenti. Sicuramente un Dunsany minore, ma proprio per questo un Dunsany accessibile.
Al netto di questa epifania stilistica, non do più di 3/5 proprio perché, com'era prevedibile, in una raccolta di ben cinquantun racconti alcuni sono più grossolani di altri, mentre alcuni temi e situazioni sono riproposti con scarse variazioni di testo in testo, così che alcune composizioni sono abbastanza dimenticabili e insoddisfacenti. Sicuramente un Dunsany minore, ma proprio per questo un Dunsany accessibile.
August 17, 2020
These are Aesop’s fables with a dark twist. At least one of them literally so, “The True History of the Hare and the Tortoise”, in which the results of that fabled race become clear.
Each of the stories is very short, the longest is probably just three or four pages; I read it as an ebook, so pages are fluid. Many are a single page even on a phone.
Most of them involve characters such as Nature, Fame, or Death.
Those involving Fame, especially, seem eternally relevant.
Both of those are the entire story, and they’re about average for the stories in this book.
Some resemble more traditional old-school fantasy, involving fantastic places such as Thlunrana and the doom foretold upon that great city, or the Earth after it has “hit a black, uncharted star,” and “certain tremendous creatures out of some other world came peering among the cinders to see if there were anything there that it were worth while to remember.”
For me, this was especially nice as an ebook, since I normally read ebooks while waiting short periods of time outside the house. Each of these were easily read start to finish during such downtimes.
Each of the stories is very short, the longest is probably just three or four pages; I read it as an ebook, so pages are fluid. Many are a single page even on a phone.
Most of them involve characters such as Nature, Fame, or Death.
The Assignation
Fame singing in the highways, and trifling as she sang, with sordid adventurers, passed the poet by.
And still the poet made for her little chaplets of song, to deck her forehead in the courts of Time: and still she wore instead the worthless garlands, that boisterous citizens flung to her in the ways, made out of perishable things.
And after a while whenever these garlands died the poet came to her with his chaplets of song; and still she laughed at him and wore the worthless wreaths, though they always died at evening.
And one day in his bitterness the poet rebuked her, and said to her: “Lovely Fame, even in the highways and the byways you have not foreborne to laugh and shout and jest with worthless men, and I have toiled for you and dreamed of you and you mock me and pass me by.”
And Fame turned her back on him and walked away, but in departing she looked over her shoulder and smiled at him as she had not smiled before, and, almost speaking in a whisper, said:
“I will meet you in the graveyard at the back of the Workhouse in a hundred years.”
Those involving Fame, especially, seem eternally relevant.
A Mistaken Identity
Fame as she walked at evening in a city saw the painted face of Notoriety flaunting beneath a gas-lamp, and many kneeled unto her in the dirt of the road.
“Who are you?” Fame said to her.
“I am Fame,” said Notoriety.
Then Fame stole softly away so that no one knew she had gone.
And Notoriety presently went forth and all her worshippers rose and followed after, and she led them, as was most meet, to her native Pit.
Both of those are the entire story, and they’re about average for the stories in this book.
Some resemble more traditional old-school fantasy, involving fantastic places such as Thlunrana and the doom foretold upon that great city, or the Earth after it has “hit a black, uncharted star,” and “certain tremendous creatures out of some other world came peering among the cinders to see if there were anything there that it were worth while to remember.”
For me, this was especially nice as an ebook, since I normally read ebooks while waiting short periods of time outside the house. Each of these were easily read start to finish during such downtimes.
All we who write put me in mind of sailors hastily making rafts upon doomed ships.
May 19, 2026
Ranging from four pages at the longest, to two paragraphs at the shortest, these fifty-one microstories could easily be read in one sitting, but I don't think that's the ideal case. Though a mixture of fables, allegories, and pure fantasies, they tend to tread the same subjects and moods repeatedly: death, ephemerality, anti-modernity and romanticism. I suppose if you're a glass half full person you could say it has a strong aesthetic unity. Some are slightly creepy and some have a comic, almost shitpost quality.
These are so short, I can just copy paste my favs right in here.
"Charon"
These are so short, I can just copy paste my favs right in here.
"Charon"
Charon leaned forward and rowed. All things were one with his weariness."The Hen"
It was not with him a matter of years or of centuries, but of wide floods of time, and an old heaviness and a pain in the arms that had become for him part of the scheme that the gods had made and was of a piece with Eternity.
If the gods had even sent him a contrary wind it would have divided all time in his memory into two equal slabs.
So grey were all things always where he was that if any radiance lingered a moment among the dead, on the face of such a queen perhaps as Cleopatra, his eyes could not have perceived it.
It was strange that the dead nowadays were coming in such numbers. They were coming in thousands where they used to come in fifties. It was neither Charon's duty nor his wont to ponder in his grey soul why these things might be. Charon leaned forward and rowed.
Then no one came for a while. It was not usual for the gods to send no one down from Earth for such a space. But the gods knew best.
Then one man came alone. And the little shade sat shivering on a lonely bench and the great boat pushed off. Only one passenger: the gods knew best. And great and weary Charon rowed on and on beside the little, silent, shivering ghost.
And the sound of the river was like a mighty sigh that Grief in the beginning had sighed among her sisters, and that could not die like the echoes of human sorrow failing on earthly hills, but was as old as time and the pain in Charon's arms.
Then the boat from the slow, grey river loomed up to the coast of Dis and the little, silent shade still shivering stepped ashore, and Charon turned the boat to go wearily back to the world. Then the little shadow spoke, that had been a man.
"I am the last," he said.
No one had ever made Charon smile before, no one before had ever made him weep.
All along the farmyard gables the swallows sat a-row, twittering uneasily to one another, telling of many things, but thinking only of Summer and the South, for Autumn was afoot and the North wind waiting."The Guest"
And suddenly one day they were all quite gone. And everyone spoke of the swallows and the South.
"I think I shall go South myself next year," said a hen.
And the year wore on and the swallows came again, and the year wore on and they sat again on the gables, and all the poultry discussed the departure of the hen.
And very early one morning, the wind being from the North, the swallows all soared suddenly and felt the wind in their wings; and a strength came upon them and a strange old knowledge and a more than human faith, and flying high they left the smoke of our cities and small remembered eaves, and saw at last the huge and homeless sea, and steering by grey sea-currents went southward with the wind. And going South they went by glittering fog-banks and saw old islands lifting their heads above them; they saw the slow quests of the wandering ships, and divers seeking pearls, and lands at war, till there came in view the mountains that they sought and the sight of the peaks they knew; and they descended into an austral valley, and saw Summer sometimes sleeping and sometimes singing song.
"I think the wind is about right," said the hen; and she spread her wings and ran out of the poultry-yard. And she ran fluttering out on to the road and some way down it until she came to a garden.
At evening she came back panting.
And in the poultry-yard she told the poultry how she had gone South as far as the high road, and saw the great world's traffic going by, and came to lands where the potato grew, and saw the stubble upon which men live, and at the end of the road had found a garden, and there were roses in it--beautiful roses!--and the gardener himself was there with his braces on.
"How extremely interesting," the poultry said, "and what a really beautiful description!"
And the Winter wore away, and the bitter months went by, and the Spring of the year appeared, and the swallows came again.
"We have been to the South," they said, "and the valleys beyond the sea."
But the poultry would not agree that there was a sea in the South: "You should hear our hen," they said.
A young man came into an ornate restaurant at eight o'clock in London."Roses"
He was alone, but two places had been laid at the table which was reserved for him. He had chosen the dinner very carefully, by letter a week before.
A waiter asked him about the other guest.
"You probably won't see him till the coffee comes," the young man told him; so he was served alone.
Those at adjacent tables might have noticed the young man continually addressing the empty chair and carrying on a monologue with it throughout his elaborate dinner.
"I think you knew my father," he said to it over the soup.
"I sent for you this evening," he continued, "because I want you to do me a good turn; in fact I must insist on it."
There was nothing eccentric about the man except for this habit of addressing an empty chair, certainly he was eating as good a dinner as any sane man could wish for.
After the Burgundy had been served he became more voluble in his monologue, not that he spoiled his wine by drinking excessively.
"We have several acquaintances in common," he said. "I met King Seti a year ago in Thebes. I think he has altered very little since you knew him. I thought his forehead a little low for a king's. Cheops has left the house that he built for your reception, he must have prepared for you for years and years. I suppose you have seldom been entertained like that. I ordered this dinner over a week ago. I thought then that a lady might have come with me, but as she wouldn't I've asked you. She may not after all be as lovely as Helen of Troy. Was Helen very lovely? Not when you knew her, perhaps. You were lucky in Cleopatra, you must have known her when she was in her prime.
"You never knew the mermaids nor the fairies nor the lovely goddesses of long ago, that's where we have the best of you."
He was silent when the waiters came to his table, but rambled merrily on as soon as they left, still turned to the empty chair.
"You know I saw you here in London only the other day. You were on a motor bus going down Ludgate Hill. It was going much too fast. London is a good place. But I shall be glad enough to leave it. It was in London that I met the lady I that was speaking about. If it hadn't been for London I probably shouldn't have met her, and if it hadn't been for London she probably wouldn't have had so much besides me to amuse her. It cuts both ways."
He paused once to order coffee, gazing earnestly at the waiter and putting a sovereign in his hand. "Don't let it be chicory," said he.
The waiter brought the coffee, and the young man dropped a tabloid of some sort into his cup.
"I don't suppose you come here very often," he went on. "Well, you probably want to be going. I haven't taken you much out of your way, there is plenty for you to do in London."
Then having drunk his coffee he fell on to the floor by a foot of the empty chair, and a doctor who was dining in the room bent over him and announced to the anxious manager the visible presence of the young man's guest.
I know a roadside where the wild rose blooms with a strange abundance. There is a beauty in the blossoms too of an almost exotic kind, a taint of deeper pink that shocks the Puritan flowers. Two hundred generations ago (generations, I mean, of roses) this was a village street; there was a floral decadence when they left their simple life and the roses came from the wilderness to clamber round houses of men."The True History of the Hare and the Tortoise"
Of all the memories of that little village, of all the cottages that stood there, of all the men and women whose homes they were, nothing remains but a more beautiful blush on the faces of the roses.
I hope that when London is clean passed away and the defeated fields come back again, like an exiled people returning after a war, they may find some beautiful thing to remind them of it all; because we have loved a little that swart old city.
For a long time there was doubt with acrimony among the beasts as to whether the Hare or the Tortoise could run the swifter. Some said the Hare was the swifter of the two because he had such long ears, and others said the Tortoise was the swifter because anyone whose shell was so hard as that should be able to run hard too. And lo, the forces of estrangement and disorder perpetually postponed a decisive contest."Taking Up Picadilly"
But when there was nearly war among the beasts, at last an arrangement was come to and it was decided that the Hare and the Tortoise should run a race of five hundred yards so that all should see who was right.
"Ridiculous nonsense!" said the Hare, and it was all his backers could do to get him to run.
"The contest is most welcome to me," said the Tortoise, "I shall not shirk it."
O, how his backers cheered.
Feeling ran high on the day of the race; the goose rushed at the fox and nearly pecked him. Both sides spoke loudly of the approaching victory up to the very moment of the race.
"I am absolutely confident of success," said the Tortoise. But the Hare said nothing, he looked bored and cross. Some of his supporters deserted him then and went to the other side, who were loudly cheering the Tortoise's inspiriting words. But many remained with the Hare. "We shall not be disappointed in him," they said. "A beast with such long ears is bound to win."
"Run hard," said the supporters of the Tortoise.
And "run hard" became a kind of catch-phrase which everybody repeated to one another. "Hard shell and hard living. That's what the country wants. Run hard," they said. And these words were never uttered but multitudes cheered from their hearts.
Then they were off, and suddenly there was a hush.
The Hare dashed off for about a hundred yards, then he looked round to see where his rival was.
"It is rather absurd," he said, "to race with a Tortoise." And he sat down and scratched himself. "Run hard! Run hard!" shouted some.
"Let him rest," shouted others. And "let him rest" became a catch-phrase too.
And after a while his rival drew near to him.
"There comes that damned Tortoise," said the Hare, and he got up and ran as hard as could be so that he should not let the Tortoise beat him.
"Those ears will win," said his friends. "Those ears will win; and establish upon an incontestable footing the truth of what we have said." And some of them turned to the backers of the Tortoise and said: "What about your beast now?"
"Run hard," they replied. "Run hard."
The Hare ran on for nearly three hundred yards, nearly in fact as far as the winning-post, when it suddenly struck him what a fool he looked running races with a Tortoise who was nowhere in sight, and he sat down again and scratched.
"Run hard. Run hard," said the crowd, and "Let him rest."
"Whatever is the use of it?" said the Hare, and this time he stopped for good. Some say he slept.
There was desperate excitement for an hour or two, and then the Tortoise won.
"Run hard. Run hard," shouted his backers. "Hard shell and hard living: that's what has done it." And then they asked the Tortoise what his achievement signified, and he went and asked the Turtle. And the Turtle said, "It is a glorious victory for the forces of swiftness." And then the Tortoise repeated it to his friends. And all the beasts said nothing else for years. And even to this day, "a glorious victory for the forces of swiftness" is a catch-phrase in the house of the snail.
And the reason that this version of the race is not widely known is that very few of those that witnessed it survived the great forest-fire that happened shortly after. It came up over the weald by night with a great wind. The Hare and the Tortoise and a very few of the beasts saw it far off from a high bare hill that was at the edge of the trees, and they hurriedly called a meeting to decide what messenger they should send to warn the beasts in the forest.
They sent the Tortoise.
Going down Picadilly one day and nearing Grosvenor Place I saw, if my memory is not at fault, some workmen with their coats off--or so they seemed. They had pickaxes in their hands and wore corduroy trousers and that little leather band below the knee that goes by the astonishing name of "York-to-London."The Sphinx in Thebes (Massachusetts)
They seemed to be working with peculiar vehemence, so that I stopped and asked one what they were doing.
"We are taking up Picadilly," he said to me.
"But at this time of year?" I said. "Is it usual in June?"
"We are not what we seem," said he.
"Oh, I see," I said, "you are doing it for a joke."
"Well, not exactly that," he answered me.
"For a bet?" I said.
"Not precisely," said he.
And then I looked at the bit that they had already picked, and though it was broad daylight over my head it was darkness down there, all full of the southern stars.
"It was noisy and bad and we grew aweary of it," said he that wore corduroy trousers. "We are not what we appear."
They were taking up Picadilly altogether.
There was a woman in a steel-built city who had all that money could buy, she had gold and dividends and trains and houses, and she had pets to play with, but she had no sphinx."The Song of the Blackbird"
So she besought them to bring her a live sphinx; and therefore they went to the menageries, and then to the forests and the desert places, and yet could find no sphinx.
And she would have been content with a little lion but that one was already owned by a woman she knew; so they had to search the world again for a sphinx.
And still there was none.
But they were not men that it is easy to baffle, and at last they found a sphinx in a desert at evening watching a ruined temple whose gods she had eaten hundreds of years ago when her hunger was on her. And they cast chains on her, who was still with an ominous stillness, and took her westwards with them and brought her home.
And so the sphinx came to the steel-built city.
And the woman was very glad that she owned a sphinx: but the sphinx stared long into her eyes one day, and softly asked a riddle of the woman.
And the woman could not answer, and she died.
And the sphinx is silent again and none knows what she will do.
As the poet passed the thorn-tree the blackbird sang."What Have We Come To"
"How ever do you do it?" the poet said, for he knew bird language.
"It was like this," said the blackbird. "It really was the most extraordinary thing. I made that song last Spring, it came to me all of a sudden. There was the most beautiful she-blackbird that the world has ever seen. Her eyes were blacker than lakes are at night, her feathers were blacker than the night itself, and nothing was as yellow as her beak; she could fly much faster than the lightning. She was not an ordinary she-blackbird, there has never been any other like her at all. I did not dare go near her because she was so wonderful. One day last Spring when it got warm again--it had been cold, we ate berries, things were quite different then, but Spring came and it got warm--one day I was thinking how wonderful she was and it seemed so extraordinary to think that I should ever have seen her, the only really wonderful she-blackbird in the world, that I opened my beak to give a shout, and then this song came, and there had never been anything like it before, and luckily I remembered it, the very song that I sang just now. But what is so extraordinary, the most amazing occurence of that marvellous day, was that no sooner had I sung the song than that very bird, the most wonderful she-blackbird in the world, flew right up to me and sat quite close to me on the same tree. I never remember such wonderful times as those.
"Yes, the song came in a moment, and as I was saying...."
And an old wanderer walking with a stick came by and the blackbird flew away, and the poet told the old man the blackbird's wonderful story.
"That song new?" said the wanderer. "Not a bit of it. God made it years ago. All the blackbirds used to sing it when I was young. It was new then."
When the advertiser saw the cathedral spires over the downs in the distance, he looked at them and wept.
"If only," he said, "this were an advertisement of Beefo, so nice, so nutritious, try it in your soup, ladies like it."
June 11, 2015
A hen decides to go south for the winter, an angel tosses an advertiser into Hell, an orange makes nefarious plans and a sphinx visits Thebes, Massachusetts.
Often witty, frequently melancholy and occasionally blood-chillingly creepy, these fifty-one very short stories are a foundational document for the modern fantasy genre. Decades before Neil Gaiman was born, Dunsany wrote about a cyclist encountering decrepit versions of Odin and Thor begging for worship by the side of the road. Many of these stories precursor what is now called 'urban fantasy': the reader will encounter ghosts who haunt construction sites, Father Time and Mother Nature walking through Coventry and the snarkiest version of the Tortoise and the Hare they're ever likely to read.
Dreamlike in the best possible sense- they evoke the feeling of dreams without a trace of the awkwardness that so often impedes the attempt to retell one.
Dunsany's prose speaks for itself. One of my favourite excerpts:
I saw the other day the Sphinx's painted face.
She had painted her face in order to ogle Time.
And he has spared no other painted face in all the world but hers.
Delilah was younger than she, and Delilah is dust. Time hath loved nothing but this worthless painted face.
I do not care that she is ugly, nor that she has painted her face, so that she only lure his secret from Time.
Time dallies like a fool at her feet when he should be smiting cities.
Time never wearies of her silly smile.
There are temples all about her that he has forgotten to spoil.
I saw an old man go by, and Time never touched him.
Time that has carried away the seven gates of Thebes!
Often witty, frequently melancholy and occasionally blood-chillingly creepy, these fifty-one very short stories are a foundational document for the modern fantasy genre. Decades before Neil Gaiman was born, Dunsany wrote about a cyclist encountering decrepit versions of Odin and Thor begging for worship by the side of the road. Many of these stories precursor what is now called 'urban fantasy': the reader will encounter ghosts who haunt construction sites, Father Time and Mother Nature walking through Coventry and the snarkiest version of the Tortoise and the Hare they're ever likely to read.
Dreamlike in the best possible sense- they evoke the feeling of dreams without a trace of the awkwardness that so often impedes the attempt to retell one.
Dunsany's prose speaks for itself. One of my favourite excerpts:
I saw the other day the Sphinx's painted face.
She had painted her face in order to ogle Time.
And he has spared no other painted face in all the world but hers.
Delilah was younger than she, and Delilah is dust. Time hath loved nothing but this worthless painted face.
I do not care that she is ugly, nor that she has painted her face, so that she only lure his secret from Time.
Time dallies like a fool at her feet when he should be smiting cities.
Time never wearies of her silly smile.
There are temples all about her that he has forgotten to spoil.
I saw an old man go by, and Time never touched him.
Time that has carried away the seven gates of Thebes!
May 9, 2017
An assortment of VERY short stories to be read in "sips". This is not something to be quickly read, but to be lingered over. Apparently the author was considered to be an author of fantasy, but these tiny stories seem to me to be more stories of philosophy.
December 27, 2020
A freebie from early Bird Books. Lord Dunsany was of Irish descent and did most of his writing in the early 20th Century. He is considered a major influence on such notables in the horror/fantasy/SF genres as H. P. Lovcraft, Clark Ashton Smith, J. R. R. Tolkien and Arthur C. Clarke (Wikipedia). Although mostly known for his longer works, Lord Dunsany was also a prolific author or short stories. This book was first published in 1915.
The stories in this collection are indeed short, the longest being perhaps 3 pages, and the shortest only a few brief paragraphs. They are, indeed, heavily mythological and characterized by flowery, thickly descriptive passages which are frequently difficult to follow. Nonetheless, they are intriguing and follow several themes, the most notable of which is Man’s hubris in thinking he can conquer Nature, which outlives civilizations and continues to thrive. There are also conversations and conflicts amongst the lesser gods, such as Death, Fame, Notoriety and Time (Neil Gaiman has also expressed having been influenced by Lord Dunsany) and Man’s interaction with them. One can certainly see Lovecraft’s notion of the nature of the land influencing its inhabitants (although in Lovecraft’s scheme the land has pervasive malevolence).
Here are a couple of the shorter stories in this collection which, I think, represent Lord Dunsany’s point of view:
DEATH AND THE ORANGE
TWO DARK YOUNG men in a foreign southern land sat at a restaurant table with one woman. And on the woman’s plate was a small orange which had an evil laughter in its heart. And both of the men would be looking at the woman all the time, and they ate little and they drank much. And the woman was smiling equally at each. Then the small orange that had the laughter in its heart rolled slowly off the plate on to the floor. And the dark young men both sought for it at once, and they met suddenly beneath the table, and soon they were speaking swift words to one another, and a horror and an impotence came over the Reason of each as she sat helpless at the back of the mind, and the heart of the orange laughed and the woman went on smiling; and Death, who was sitting at another table, tête-à-tête with an old man, rose and came over to listen to the quarrel.
ROSES
I KNOW A roadside where the wild rose blooms with a strange abundance. There is a beauty in the blossoms too of an almost exotic kind, a taint of deeper pink that shocks the Puritan flowers. Two hundred generations ago (generations, I mean, of roses) this was a village street; there was a floral decadence when they left their simple life and the roses came from the wilderness to clamber round houses of men. Of all the memories of that little village, of all the cottages that stood there, of all the men and women whose homes they were, nothing remains but a more beautiful blush on the faces of the roses. I hope that when London is clean passed away and the defeated fields come back again, like an exiled people returning after a war, they may find some beautiful thing to remind them of it all; because we loved a little that swart old city.
I enjoyed these stories for themselves, but additionally for their influence upon Lovecraft and others, and thus to enjoy Lovecraft’s works at a deeper level. I would rate this book four stars and would certainly recommend it for fans of fantasy and horror, but be warned, it’s sometimes slow going and some of the passages are all but incomprehensible.
The stories in this collection are indeed short, the longest being perhaps 3 pages, and the shortest only a few brief paragraphs. They are, indeed, heavily mythological and characterized by flowery, thickly descriptive passages which are frequently difficult to follow. Nonetheless, they are intriguing and follow several themes, the most notable of which is Man’s hubris in thinking he can conquer Nature, which outlives civilizations and continues to thrive. There are also conversations and conflicts amongst the lesser gods, such as Death, Fame, Notoriety and Time (Neil Gaiman has also expressed having been influenced by Lord Dunsany) and Man’s interaction with them. One can certainly see Lovecraft’s notion of the nature of the land influencing its inhabitants (although in Lovecraft’s scheme the land has pervasive malevolence).
Here are a couple of the shorter stories in this collection which, I think, represent Lord Dunsany’s point of view:
DEATH AND THE ORANGE
TWO DARK YOUNG men in a foreign southern land sat at a restaurant table with one woman. And on the woman’s plate was a small orange which had an evil laughter in its heart. And both of the men would be looking at the woman all the time, and they ate little and they drank much. And the woman was smiling equally at each. Then the small orange that had the laughter in its heart rolled slowly off the plate on to the floor. And the dark young men both sought for it at once, and they met suddenly beneath the table, and soon they were speaking swift words to one another, and a horror and an impotence came over the Reason of each as she sat helpless at the back of the mind, and the heart of the orange laughed and the woman went on smiling; and Death, who was sitting at another table, tête-à-tête with an old man, rose and came over to listen to the quarrel.
ROSES
I KNOW A roadside where the wild rose blooms with a strange abundance. There is a beauty in the blossoms too of an almost exotic kind, a taint of deeper pink that shocks the Puritan flowers. Two hundred generations ago (generations, I mean, of roses) this was a village street; there was a floral decadence when they left their simple life and the roses came from the wilderness to clamber round houses of men. Of all the memories of that little village, of all the cottages that stood there, of all the men and women whose homes they were, nothing remains but a more beautiful blush on the faces of the roses. I hope that when London is clean passed away and the defeated fields come back again, like an exiled people returning after a war, they may find some beautiful thing to remind them of it all; because we loved a little that swart old city.
I enjoyed these stories for themselves, but additionally for their influence upon Lovecraft and others, and thus to enjoy Lovecraft’s works at a deeper level. I would rate this book four stars and would certainly recommend it for fans of fantasy and horror, but be warned, it’s sometimes slow going and some of the passages are all but incomprehensible.
February 8, 2023
Many would believe this is a collection of short stories and be a bit surprised most are 1-2 pages long. But the title "Tales" is perfect as it's exactly that.
It's a collection of tales, in the older way you don't see today, like Death, Time, the sea and so on, being personified and talking with each other, with mankind, with civilizations and so on.
It may feel unusual today, specially when anthologies of "short" stories you see quite a bunch that feel they have novella length. Dunsany's tales are often 1-2 pages.
Those short stories often come with a character in a situation, but Dunsany makes allusion of grand themes: the artist's chase for recognition, mankind's rise and fall, the futile attempt to defeat time and death, and so on.
As usual some tales might not do anything for you while others are pretty damn good and a few really made me smile.
Couple this with Dunsany's fantastic writing style and you'll have a good treat to at least read a story or two in a minute here and there. It's also free on public domain, so what's not to like?
It's a collection of tales, in the older way you don't see today, like Death, Time, the sea and so on, being personified and talking with each other, with mankind, with civilizations and so on.
It may feel unusual today, specially when anthologies of "short" stories you see quite a bunch that feel they have novella length. Dunsany's tales are often 1-2 pages.
Those short stories often come with a character in a situation, but Dunsany makes allusion of grand themes: the artist's chase for recognition, mankind's rise and fall, the futile attempt to defeat time and death, and so on.
As usual some tales might not do anything for you while others are pretty damn good and a few really made me smile.
Couple this with Dunsany's fantastic writing style and you'll have a good treat to at least read a story or two in a minute here and there. It's also free on public domain, so what's not to like?
August 25, 2025
Part 1 (Librivox):
"The Assignation" ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️" Fame framed as final epitaph.
"Charon": ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️: Cheer up Charon! There're still seaslugs.
"The Death of Pan": ⭐️: Panicked Pandemonium.
"The Sphinx at Giza": ⭐️⭐️: Time personified is time idolized.
"The Hen": ⭐️⭐️: Hens can fly if their wings aren't clipped and they aren't too fat.
"Wind and Fog": ⭐️⭐️⭐️: Both have done much to help the World fight off disease.
"The Raft-Builders": ⭐️⭐️: A good analogy torpedoed by vanity.
"The Workman": ⭐️⭐️⭐️: All is ephemeral.
@"The Guest": ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️: Coffee always needs some sweetening.
"Death and Odysseus": ⭐️⭐️: Death personified is death demonized.
"Death and the Orange": ⭐️⭐️: The orange seeds of discord.
"The Prayer and the Flower": ⭐️⭐️: Flowers will be on your grave.
"Time and the Tradesmen": ⭐️⭐️⭐️: Da Vinci at work.
"The Little City": ⭐️⭐️: The little tumor.
"The Unpasturable Fields": ⭐️⭐️: Unpasturable doesn't mean undefileable.
"The Worm and the Angel": ⭐️⭐️: Βη δακεων παρα Θινα πολνφλοςβπιο Θαλασσπζ or Be dakeon para Thina poluphloisboio Thalassaes = It is wise to be quiet as by the side of the loud, resounding (Mediterranean) sea?
"The Songless Country": ⭐️⭐️: No doubt.
"The Latest Thing": ⭐️⭐️: An unclean feeder is an unsavory smorgasbord.
"The Demagogue and the Demi-monde: ⭐️⭐️⭐️: Judgementalism is even worse.
"The Giant Poppy": ⭐️⭐️: Poppies smoke people.
"Roses": ⭐️⭐️: A thorny issue.
"The Man with the Golden Ear-rings": ⭐️⭐️⭐️: Meteors on land are meteorites. Pirates on land are politicians.
"The Dream of King Karna-Vootra": ⭐️⭐️: Bummer!
"The Storm": ⭐️⭐️: God for you!
"A Mistaken Identity": ⭐️⭐️⭐️: Notoriety is to fame as a cesspit is to a tarn. A notable story.
Part 2 (Librivox):
"The True History of the Hare and the Tortoise": ⭐️⭐️: They should have sent the 🦊.
"Alone the Immortals": ⭐️⭐️: Years are the gods' excretals.
"A Moral Little Tale": ⭐️⭐️: Dancing is for Dervish.
"The Return of Song":
"Spring in Town":
"How the Enemy Came to Thlunrana":
"A Losing Game"
"Taking Up Picadilly"
"After the Fire":
"The City"
"The Food of Death" rated separately
"The Lonely Idol"
"The Sphinx of Thebes (Massachusetts)"
"The Reward"
"The Trouble in Leafy Green Street"
"The Mist": US version only
"Furrow-Maker"
"Lobster Salad":
"The Return of the Exiles"
"Nature and Time"
"The Song of the Blackbird"
"The Messengers"
"The Three Tall Sons"
"Compromise"
"What Have We Come To"
. . . "The Tomb of Pan": ⭐️⭐️⭐️: Better than part 1:
"The Man Who Talked with Earth" aka "The Poet Speaks with Earth" (British Version Only): ⭐️⭐️⭐️: Human inventions and institutions are pathetic.
"The Assignation" ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️" Fame framed as final epitaph.
"Charon": ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️: Cheer up Charon! There're still seaslugs.
"The Death of Pan": ⭐️: Panicked Pandemonium.
"The Sphinx at Giza": ⭐️⭐️: Time personified is time idolized.
"The Hen": ⭐️⭐️: Hens can fly if their wings aren't clipped and they aren't too fat.
"Wind and Fog": ⭐️⭐️⭐️: Both have done much to help the World fight off disease.
"The Raft-Builders": ⭐️⭐️: A good analogy torpedoed by vanity.
"The Workman": ⭐️⭐️⭐️: All is ephemeral.
@"The Guest": ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️: Coffee always needs some sweetening.
"Death and Odysseus": ⭐️⭐️: Death personified is death demonized.
"Death and the Orange": ⭐️⭐️: The orange seeds of discord.
"The Prayer and the Flower": ⭐️⭐️: Flowers will be on your grave.
"Time and the Tradesmen": ⭐️⭐️⭐️: Da Vinci at work.
"The Little City": ⭐️⭐️: The little tumor.
"The Unpasturable Fields": ⭐️⭐️: Unpasturable doesn't mean undefileable.
"The Worm and the Angel": ⭐️⭐️: Βη δακεων παρα Θινα πολνφλοςβπιο Θαλασσπζ or Be dakeon para Thina poluphloisboio Thalassaes = It is wise to be quiet as by the side of the loud, resounding (Mediterranean) sea?
"The Songless Country": ⭐️⭐️: No doubt.
"The Latest Thing": ⭐️⭐️: An unclean feeder is an unsavory smorgasbord.
"The Demagogue and the Demi-monde: ⭐️⭐️⭐️: Judgementalism is even worse.
"The Giant Poppy": ⭐️⭐️: Poppies smoke people.
"Roses": ⭐️⭐️: A thorny issue.
"The Man with the Golden Ear-rings": ⭐️⭐️⭐️: Meteors on land are meteorites. Pirates on land are politicians.
"The Dream of King Karna-Vootra": ⭐️⭐️: Bummer!
"The Storm": ⭐️⭐️: God for you!
"A Mistaken Identity": ⭐️⭐️⭐️: Notoriety is to fame as a cesspit is to a tarn. A notable story.
Part 2 (Librivox):
"The True History of the Hare and the Tortoise": ⭐️⭐️: They should have sent the 🦊.
"Alone the Immortals": ⭐️⭐️: Years are the gods' excretals.
"A Moral Little Tale": ⭐️⭐️: Dancing is for Dervish.
"The Return of Song":
"Spring in Town":
"How the Enemy Came to Thlunrana":
"A Losing Game"
"Taking Up Picadilly"
"After the Fire":
"The City"
"The Food of Death" rated separately
"The Lonely Idol"
"The Sphinx of Thebes (Massachusetts)"
"The Reward"
"The Trouble in Leafy Green Street"
"The Mist": US version only
"Furrow-Maker"
"Lobster Salad":
"The Return of the Exiles"
"Nature and Time"
"The Song of the Blackbird"
"The Messengers"
"The Three Tall Sons"
"Compromise"
"What Have We Come To"
. . . "The Tomb of Pan": ⭐️⭐️⭐️: Better than part 1:
"The Man Who Talked with Earth" aka "The Poet Speaks with Earth" (British Version Only): ⭐️⭐️⭐️: Human inventions and institutions are pathetic.
May 9, 2026
3.5 - It’s Lord Dunsany; the prose and imagery are as lyrical and vivid as ever, with a strong focus on mythology…but 51 stories in fewer than 70 pages is too much. There just isn’t enough space for all the stories to breathe and reach their full potential.
However, there are some timeless classics here and fans of fairy tales will find it easier to get used to the brevity of them.
My favourite tales are all the ones where Time or Death appear as characters and The True History of the Hare and the Tortoise is just hilarious haha
The collection is in the public domain and you can read it here on Project Gutenberg :D
However, there are some timeless classics here and fans of fairy tales will find it easier to get used to the brevity of them.
My favourite tales are all the ones where Time or Death appear as characters and The True History of the Hare and the Tortoise is just hilarious haha
The collection is in the public domain and you can read it here on Project Gutenberg :D
June 5, 2019
One of these days maybe I'll hit upon A Lord Dunsany collection/novel that will show how he inspired HPL & others, but so far I'm 0-fer-2. I read 'Plays of Gods and Men' 5-6 years ago and didn't care for it; same goes for 'Fifty-One Tales'.
Granted, a series of vignettes averaging about a page/tale doesn't have much meat on the bone to sink one's teeth into - so maybe I would have been better served trying this collection after giving one of his more substantial tales a read first, maybe like 'The King of Elfland's Daughter'.
Granted, a series of vignettes averaging about a page/tale doesn't have much meat on the bone to sink one's teeth into - so maybe I would have been better served trying this collection after giving one of his more substantial tales a read first, maybe like 'The King of Elfland's Daughter'.
January 29, 2018
This is a collection of 51 incredibly short texts (most of them are only 1 page long) that can be read separately but I found that a lot of them were interconnected, especially with the order they appeared in. Some were creepy, others clever and a few I didn't understand because I lacked knowledge of the context (certain myths or names that are alluded to). I'd love to return to these one day for some close reading and analysis.
July 29, 2022
For a work first published in 1915, its overall cynical, despairing view of humanity seems very much au courant for 2022.
My favorites of the collection are probably "The Worm and the Angel," "The Guest," and "Taking Up Piccadilly." Runners-up include "Death and Odysseus" and "Three Tall Sons." As always, YMMV.
My favorites of the collection are probably "The Worm and the Angel," "The Guest," and "Taking Up Piccadilly." Runners-up include "Death and Odysseus" and "Three Tall Sons." As always, YMMV.
December 3, 2018
Fabulous. Extremely imaginative. Many, many of these little snippets made me smile a lot.
May 10, 2020
I'm giving this five stars because of the package-- the day, the book, and the stories.
Almost all of the stories in this volume are quaint, some are trite, some are definitely silly, and a few may actually make one pause for a moment to think. It's maybe a three-star read for a pleasant afternoon, four if one is really into the vintage prose.
But this particular volume, my copy of this book, is a VG-F 1919 hardback edition with no dustjacket that I picked up at a Friends of the Library sale on half-price Sunday a few years back. I remember pulling it off the shelf in the "better books" room (meaning, "we're charging more for these books because we think they are fancy") and seeing the $15 price penciled in the corner-- on the same front free endpaper that Lord Dunsany himself signed and dated "Dec:5 1919."
Honestly, I suppose the point of this review is to brag that I spent part of my birthday this year comfortably reposed in a deck chair, enjoying breezy 70-degree weather and a cold beverage, while reading a lovely little $7.50 book signed by a pre-Tolkien fantasist almost 101 years ago.
Times are strange for people right now, and downright hard for many; I am grateful that I have the privilege to ignore the world for a day, sit in the sunshine, and enjoy a book.
Almost all of the stories in this volume are quaint, some are trite, some are definitely silly, and a few may actually make one pause for a moment to think. It's maybe a three-star read for a pleasant afternoon, four if one is really into the vintage prose.
But this particular volume, my copy of this book, is a VG-F 1919 hardback edition with no dustjacket that I picked up at a Friends of the Library sale on half-price Sunday a few years back. I remember pulling it off the shelf in the "better books" room (meaning, "we're charging more for these books because we think they are fancy") and seeing the $15 price penciled in the corner-- on the same front free endpaper that Lord Dunsany himself signed and dated "Dec:5 1919."
Honestly, I suppose the point of this review is to brag that I spent part of my birthday this year comfortably reposed in a deck chair, enjoying breezy 70-degree weather and a cold beverage, while reading a lovely little $7.50 book signed by a pre-Tolkien fantasist almost 101 years ago.
Times are strange for people right now, and downright hard for many; I am grateful that I have the privilege to ignore the world for a day, sit in the sunshine, and enjoy a book.
November 21, 2016
The tales are of mixed quality. Some are too ham-fistedly moralistic, and at three paragraphs long, there is not enough space for the point of any of the stories to have much subtlety.
I can definitely sense some influence here on Neil Gaiman. (When Thor and Odin return to Stonehenge, it is very American Gods, for example.) They're all Halloween tales, even his version of The Tortoise and the Hare. There's a lot about the briefness and folly of civilization and the eventual triumph of Nature.
Here are a few quotes I liked:
"It was strange that the dead nowadays were coming in such numbers. They were coming in thousands where they used to come in fifties. It was neither Charon's duty nor his wont to ponder in his grey soul why these things might be. Charon leaned forward and rowed.
Then no one came for a while. It was not usual for the gods to send no one down from Earth for such a space. But the gods knew best.
Then one man came alone."
"But looking upwards in the blaze of the moon I suddenly saw colossi sitting near, and towering up and blotting out the stars and filling the night with blackness"
"And very early one morning, the wind being from the North, the swallows all soared suddenly and felt the wind in their wings; and a strength came upon them and a strange old knowledge and a more than human faith, and flying high they left the smoke of our cities and small remembered eaves, and saw at last the huge and homeless sea, and steering by grey sea-currents went southward with the wind."
" I saw below me an iridescent bubble not greatly larger than a star shine beautifully but faintly, and up and up from it looking larger and larger came a flock of white, innumerable swans, singing
and singing and singing, till it seemed as though even the gods were wild ships swimming in music.
`What is it?' I said to one that was humble among the gods.
`Only a world has ended,' he said to me, `and the swans are coming back to the gods returning the gift of song.'"
"They seemed to be working with peculiar vehemence, so that I stopped and asked one what they were doing.
`We are taking up Picadilly,' he said to me...
...And then I looked at the bit that they had already picked, and though it was broad daylight over my head it was darkness down there, all full of the southern stars."
"They sent down singing girls, and priests with oats and wine, they sent down garlands and propitious berries, down by dark steps to the black depths of the earth, they sent peacocks newly slain, and boys with burning spices, and their thin white sacred cats with collars of pearls all newly drawn from sea, they sent huge diamonds down in coffers of teak, and ointment and strange oriental dyes, arrows and armor and the rings of their queen.
`Oho,' said the earthquake in the coolth of the earth, `so they are not the gods.'"
I can definitely sense some influence here on Neil Gaiman. (When Thor and Odin return to Stonehenge, it is very American Gods, for example.) They're all Halloween tales, even his version of The Tortoise and the Hare. There's a lot about the briefness and folly of civilization and the eventual triumph of Nature.
Here are a few quotes I liked:
"It was strange that the dead nowadays were coming in such numbers. They were coming in thousands where they used to come in fifties. It was neither Charon's duty nor his wont to ponder in his grey soul why these things might be. Charon leaned forward and rowed.
Then no one came for a while. It was not usual for the gods to send no one down from Earth for such a space. But the gods knew best.
Then one man came alone."
"But looking upwards in the blaze of the moon I suddenly saw colossi sitting near, and towering up and blotting out the stars and filling the night with blackness"
"And very early one morning, the wind being from the North, the swallows all soared suddenly and felt the wind in their wings; and a strength came upon them and a strange old knowledge and a more than human faith, and flying high they left the smoke of our cities and small remembered eaves, and saw at last the huge and homeless sea, and steering by grey sea-currents went southward with the wind."
" I saw below me an iridescent bubble not greatly larger than a star shine beautifully but faintly, and up and up from it looking larger and larger came a flock of white, innumerable swans, singing
and singing and singing, till it seemed as though even the gods were wild ships swimming in music.
`What is it?' I said to one that was humble among the gods.
`Only a world has ended,' he said to me, `and the swans are coming back to the gods returning the gift of song.'"
"They seemed to be working with peculiar vehemence, so that I stopped and asked one what they were doing.
`We are taking up Picadilly,' he said to me...
...And then I looked at the bit that they had already picked, and though it was broad daylight over my head it was darkness down there, all full of the southern stars."
"They sent down singing girls, and priests with oats and wine, they sent down garlands and propitious berries, down by dark steps to the black depths of the earth, they sent peacocks newly slain, and boys with burning spices, and their thin white sacred cats with collars of pearls all newly drawn from sea, they sent huge diamonds down in coffers of teak, and ointment and strange oriental dyes, arrows and armor and the rings of their queen.
`Oho,' said the earthquake in the coolth of the earth, `so they are not the gods.'"
Read
April 28, 2015Years before Tolkien ever wrote about hobbits, elves and magic rings, there were a few rare fantasy writers. One of the best of these early fantasists was Lord Dunsany, an Irish aristocrat who poured out his imagination into exotic, semi-mythic stories.
He only wrote relatively few novels and novellas, but loads of short stories. And "Fifty One Tales" compiles the shortest of those stories, often meditations on death, joy, life and time. They're less like short stories than long vignettes, but they are striking.
In this collection, Dunsany writes of sunken ships, of Fame's prediction to a young poet, the ghost of a workman, Death trying to frighten the legendary hero Odysseus, a king dreams of a beautiful queen who has been dead for forty years, and a Spanish pirate whose evil deeds mean that he isn't allowed to die.
There is some dark humour in these stories as well, such as when Time comes across a man "antiquing" a wooden chair, and is a bit put out that his work is being done unnaturally. "Charon" is perhaps the most striking of these: the ferrymen of the dead is told by a dead passenger that "I am the last," and finally breaks a smile.
Not many authors could have such an impact with such short stories. Most of them are less than a page long, and sometimes they only focus on a minute or two. Despite this, Dunsany's excellent use of words paints some very, very vivid pictures.
Usually Dunsany either made up his own legends, or sort of coopted vague Eastern myths as they were to the Victorians. "Fifty Tales" isn't quite the same; Greek mythology has a strong presence here, with Odysseus, Pan, Pegasus, Charon, Homer and Helen all either appearing or being referred to.
Dunsany always had an excellent command of language, and he does a great job with "grey and watchful mountains," "glaring factories," and a world being choked by modernity. In one story, flowers cry out: "Great engines rush over the beautiful fields, their ways lie hard and terrible up and down the land," and in another a poet cries out in sorrow because "the progress of modern commerce" has made his songs unwanted.
As for the kindle edition of this one, it's pretty cleanly presented, with good formatting and a nice little non-hyperlinked table of contents.
Bittersweet and beautifully written, these fifty-one short stories leave behind the impression of a magical land that has faded away. Though not Dunsany's best work, it's still a classic.
He only wrote relatively few novels and novellas, but loads of short stories. And "Fifty One Tales" compiles the shortest of those stories, often meditations on death, joy, life and time. They're less like short stories than long vignettes, but they are striking.
In this collection, Dunsany writes of sunken ships, of Fame's prediction to a young poet, the ghost of a workman, Death trying to frighten the legendary hero Odysseus, a king dreams of a beautiful queen who has been dead for forty years, and a Spanish pirate whose evil deeds mean that he isn't allowed to die.
There is some dark humour in these stories as well, such as when Time comes across a man "antiquing" a wooden chair, and is a bit put out that his work is being done unnaturally. "Charon" is perhaps the most striking of these: the ferrymen of the dead is told by a dead passenger that "I am the last," and finally breaks a smile.
Not many authors could have such an impact with such short stories. Most of them are less than a page long, and sometimes they only focus on a minute or two. Despite this, Dunsany's excellent use of words paints some very, very vivid pictures.
Usually Dunsany either made up his own legends, or sort of coopted vague Eastern myths as they were to the Victorians. "Fifty Tales" isn't quite the same; Greek mythology has a strong presence here, with Odysseus, Pan, Pegasus, Charon, Homer and Helen all either appearing or being referred to.
Dunsany always had an excellent command of language, and he does a great job with "grey and watchful mountains," "glaring factories," and a world being choked by modernity. In one story, flowers cry out: "Great engines rush over the beautiful fields, their ways lie hard and terrible up and down the land," and in another a poet cries out in sorrow because "the progress of modern commerce" has made his songs unwanted.
As for the kindle edition of this one, it's pretty cleanly presented, with good formatting and a nice little non-hyperlinked table of contents.
Bittersweet and beautifully written, these fifty-one short stories leave behind the impression of a magical land that has faded away. Though not Dunsany's best work, it's still a classic.
April 19, 2015
Lord Dunsany wrote fantasy before it was called fantasy. He inspired many writers and movie makers. His writings inspired J.R.R. Tolkien, C.S. Lewis, and H.P. Lovecraft to name a few. These gentlemen went on to inspire many others. Unfortunately, Lord Dunsany has fallen out of favor somewhat. I find this to be a shame. He was a master storyteller. Luckily, his writings are finding a home in electronic form.
In this collection, the stories are short. Often, they are closer to a story sketch than what we would normally consider a full story. But Lord Dunsany manages to paint entire world's with these brief sketches. There are some reoccurring themes. Mythology, the passage of time and death, and the struggle between urban and rural settings are the focus of many of these tales.
As an author that helped shape the modern fantasy, I think any fan of the genre should at least be aware of and try Lord Dunsany. This is especially true since so many of his works can be found free or very cheaply online now.
In this collection, the stories are short. Often, they are closer to a story sketch than what we would normally consider a full story. But Lord Dunsany manages to paint entire world's with these brief sketches. There are some reoccurring themes. Mythology, the passage of time and death, and the struggle between urban and rural settings are the focus of many of these tales.
As an author that helped shape the modern fantasy, I think any fan of the genre should at least be aware of and try Lord Dunsany. This is especially true since so many of his works can be found free or very cheaply online now.
November 3, 2016
რაღაც ხიბლი ჰქონდათ პრეტოლკიენისტ ავტორებს, რაც ლიუის-ტოლკიენის მერე დაიკარგა და ძალიან ძალიან წპწპწპ დოზებით ვლინდება აქაიქ, მაგრამ აღარასოდეს იმ გაქანებით, რაც გვიანდელი ვიქტორიანული პერიოდის ფენტეზი რომანტიკოსებს დაჰყვებოდათ.
სიუჟეტური სტრუქტურა ამ პერიოდიდან ნამდვილად განვითარდა და ახლაც ფართოვდება, what if ელემენტთანაც იგივე ამბავი გვაქვს, კიდე ბევრი რამ განვითარდა, მაგრამ რაღაც აშკარად არამხოლოდ უკან წავიდა, არამედ ლამის სულ გაქრა. ხოდა ეს რაღაც არის სიზმრისეული, დახვეწილი, ეთეროვანი ატმოსფერო (ატმოსფერო არაა საუკეთესო სიტყვა).
აი ლორდ დანსენი კი (დიუნსენი? დიუნსანი?) მაგ ატმოსფეროში დაცურავს. ყოვლისმომცველი, დასასრულის კლასიკური სევდის კრებულია. თითქმის ყველა მოთხრობაში(ორ შუდ აი სეი ვინიეტში, რამდენიმე საერთოდ უსიუჟეტოა) რაღაც დიდი მთავრდება. მაგრამ მოთხრობაში რა ხდება ნაკლებ საგულისხმოა ვიდრე ის, როგორ ხდება. რა სიტყვებით ხდება. დავაბშე, იდეალური ავტორი იქნებოდა ალბათ დანსენი შინაარსობრივად ბორხესი რომ ყოფილიყო და პირიქით, ბორხესი, ფორმით დანსენი რომ ყოფილიყო.
#PowerRangersReunite
სიუჟეტური სტრუქტურა ამ პერიოდიდან ნამდვილად განვითარდა და ახლაც ფართოვდება, what if ელემენტთანაც იგივე ამბავი გვაქვს, კიდე ბევრი რამ განვითარდა, მაგრამ რაღაც აშკარად არამხოლოდ უკან წავიდა, არამედ ლამის სულ გაქრა. ხოდა ეს რაღაც არის სიზმრისეული, დახვეწილი, ეთეროვანი ატმოსფერო (ატმოსფერო არაა საუკეთესო სიტყვა).
აი ლორდ დანსენი კი (დიუნსენი? დიუნსანი?) მაგ ატმოსფეროში დაცურავს. ყოვლისმომცველი, დასასრულის კლასიკური სევდის კრებულია. თითქმის ყველა მოთხრობაში(ორ შუდ აი სეი ვინიეტში, რამდენიმე საერთოდ უსიუჟეტოა) რაღაც დიდი მთავრდება. მაგრამ მოთხრობაში რა ხდება ნაკლებ საგულისხმოა ვიდრე ის, როგორ ხდება. რა სიტყვებით ხდება. დავაბშე, იდეალური ავტორი იქნებოდა ალბათ დანსენი შინაარსობრივად ბორხესი რომ ყოფილიყო და პირიქით, ბორხესი, ფორმით დანსენი რომ ყოფილიყო.
#PowerRangersReunite
January 29, 2015
This is an odd little book. It has tiny stories, arguably vignettes, that mass, undeveloped, in its pages. Many are excellent, some are weak, all are finished so quickly that unless you choose to linger they seem lost in the flow of stories. He cheats a little: many of the stories are effectively the same story. There’s a bleak humour that emerges from many of the stories. Recommended for people interested in early works of the weird.
I listened to the Librivox version, but Internet Archive has it as an ebook.
This review was first posted on book coasters
I listened to the Librivox version, but Internet Archive has it as an ebook.
This review was first posted on book coasters
April 10, 2017
A collection of short, vignette/flash fiction, these pieces are atmospheric and at times quirky. Dunsany is classic fantasy, and some of these pieces are brilliant, but most didn't resonate as the few gems in this collection did. Part of the problem is that it's difficult to read 51 very short pieces and feel the same sense of depth you would with other short story collections. These would be better read one or two at a time, to savor the stories, rather than all at once.
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